


It's in Our Bones

by Oh_Shiny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Shiny/pseuds/Oh_Shiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Go back to sleep," she tells him, her usually smooth voice cracking with a lethargic huskiness. He lets himself fall, content, his last thoughts being her name echoing within his head.</p><p>When they think near to everything is lost to them, they begin to lose themselves in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping on the Jon and Sansa bandwagon? Hell yeah I am! Don't know if it will actually happen, but I won't be complaining if it does. A mixture of the show and books. I don't think this is going to be an overly long fic and the scenes are short, but this is getting me out of my writers funk. Hope you enjoy. :)

The only thing Jon Snow feels is weary. It’s in his bones, seeping through to the marrow, making a home for itself. He doesn’t want to suffer the slew of problems that this giant of a woman most likely intends to throw at his feet.

He has to tilt his head upwards to meet her eyes, a crystal clear blue against the dull grey haze of the horizon. Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth, the Lord of Evenfall—or so she tells him. The next admission is the one that catches his attention: sworn sword of the late Lady Stark, honour bound to track down her two missing daughters with the intent to return them to safety.

Jon sucks in a breath, for he sees the figure of a cloaked woman make herself known across the yard. Her back to him, she circles around the front of a horse, a slither of pale skin exposed from the sleeve of her gown slipping back as she makes slow, soothing passes up and down the horse’s neck. He hopes, dear gods does he hope, and he’s taking a step forward just as the Lady Tarth halts him with a hand to his chest.

“She claims not to be a Stark,” she reveals, all in hushed tones. “But the Bolton’s named her as Arya Stark when they wedded her to their heir.”

He’d begun to feel muddled, but at hearing that name spoken, the name of his sister; the hope refuses to leave. Instead it swells inside his tired heart, threatening to choke him, and propels his legs forward. In a few long strides, Jon finds himself at her back, a hand lightly resting upon her shoulder. He wants nothing more than to gather her in a hug, to hold her to him until his still healing body protests against the strain. He wants to tell this girl that has come to grow as tall as he, that he was coming for her, that he wouldn’t have left her in the grasp of men that sought to ruin her.

All his intentions whither when she turns to face him and he is met with eyes of vivid blue instead of ones that should mirror his own. Arya this is not, but her familiarity hits him in the chest hard enough for him to have to stifle a surprised breath. Her name is on the tip of his tongue, his hand in the midst of capturing her cheek in his palm, to feel the heat of her skin to skin, confirming that she’s real.

She curtsies, strands of brown hair fall from her hood and her body swoops low enough that parts of her skirts that were clean, now become as sullied as the hem. Her chin rests on her chest and in a voice that he believed to be dredged from his memories, greets him with a detached, “m’lord.”

It stings, and Jon finds himself glancing back at the Lady Tarth, confused and left floundering next to a woman who he knows to be Sansa Stark.

 

* * *

 

 The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch relinquishes his chambers and leaves her to her own devices. Sansa can see that he is bewildered by her sudden appearance, a shadow of the sister from his past claiming to be naught but a stranger. The guilt is there, hidden deep in her chest, for she witnessed the hint of hurt in his eyes.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When she had taken Theon’s hand in her own and jumped she was choosing freedom, even if it came at the price of death. He had known, and understood, how hard it was to distinguish between the person you were—are—and the person you pretend to be. So when a lady knight with a sword that could have easily dispatched her head from her body appeared before them, Sansa continued to wrap herself in the veil of safety of Alayne Stone.

She claimed to be a sworn sword of her mother, but Sansa was no longer naïve enough to take someone solely at their word. She promised to take her to her half-brother at the wall, but Sansa would only believe her when they rode through the old creaking gates of Castle Black.

Theon had trusted the Lady Tarth and had taken his own path, his shame over the betrayal of Robb sitting heavy upon his shoulders, too heavy for him to face Jon Snow who would surely hand him his penance. She had forgiven him, not sure if it was even in the nature of Alayne Stone to deny empathy where it is deserved. He pressed his cold face to her hair, whispering his goodbyes as strands became stuck in the bleeding cracks of his dry lips.

The Lady Tarth had kept her word, all to Sansa’s surprise, and Castle Black had risen before them in the distance. It was at this point that she thought to tell the truth, but the closer they got the more she feared to face her half-brother. Beneath the guise of Alayne she carried her own shame and guilt, and her eyes had stung at the thought of her father. Oh, how Jon Snow had looked up to and admired their father. Would he look at her with hatred when he learned of her hand in it all? Would he sneer at the stupid girl who had unknowingly chosen a monster over the most kind and honourable man she was likely to know? She had once thought how sweet it would be to see him again, her half-brother, but now she feared his abhorrence. Better then, to be Alayne rather than Sansa, was it not?

Now she paced around his chambers. It smelt of leather, polish, smoke and—a smile, small, just enough to lift the corners of her mouth—wolf. She finds him, red eyes and a snow white coat shadowed in a dark corner of the room. Sansa inches closer, slowly, until she lowers herself to her knees and sits back on her heels. He towers over her like this and she continues to creep forward, one arm raised, her hand curled into a gentle fist and offered to the direwolf that has grown far larger than Lady ever would have.

She expects him to hesitate, or to even growl in warning, but he only nuzzles her hand with his wet snout. Sansa lets out a shaky breath, doesn’t think twice before she has her arms wrapped around his neck, and her face now damp with tears, pressed into the thick warm mane at his chest. This was how she had wanted to greet Jon. Close they may have never been but he is all she has left. For all the safety Alayne provides her, Sansa knows that family she does not. Maybe, just maybe, Jon will embrace her in return.

 

* * *

 

 He watches her in the early morning light. It’s bright, sunlight reflecting off the snow that had yet to be cleared from the yard. It crunches beneath her boots, mixes with the mud beneath and slowly turns murky.

Jon can see, now that her hood is down, the hints of copper that weaves it way throughout her braid where the brown is starting to fade. Dye. What has happened to her that she had to hide who she is? And then he feels stupid for asking because he can repeat, word for word, the letter Ramsey Bolton sent him and can easily form an inkling from the man’s words alone.    

He stills finds himself at a loss on how to approach her. She is not the girl from his childhood anymore and has become a woman that he does not know, a woman that would rather hide away within herself than to claim her heritage. So he watches her, two gloved hands wrapped around the hilt of a wooden training sword as she tries to wiggle it free from between Ghost's jaws. She slips and an arm curls around the direwolf’s neck so as to catch her balance while a breathless laugh reaches his ears.

The tension he wasn't even aware he holds, eases, and a smile begins to form on his lips. Jon had always liked Sansa’s laugh. As it rung out through the grounds of Winterfell and caught his ear, he would find his head turning towards the direction it came from. If he was quick enough he would catch a glimpse of rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes and a wide smile.

She’s smiling now as Ghost takes pity on her and releases the sword, and Jon doesn’t think he could look away from her if he tried. She steps backwards, creating a distance between herself and Ghost, then brings the sword into her body before flinging it across the yard with a wide sweep of her arm. Ghost bounds after it, leaps, and it is back between his jaws once more.

The breaths he exhales through his nose becomes heavy as his throat tightens, and he finally pulls his eyes away from her when a gruff voice from behind asks, “You’re sister?”

“Aye.”

“She looks nothing like you,” Tormund points out.

“Half-sister. She favours her lady mother.”

The bigger man grunts then teases, “Her _lady mother_ must have been a fine woman to look at.”

Catelyn Stark had been beautiful, her daughter even more so, and it irks Jon that the man has taken notice of just how stunning a picture Sansa makes, even with the brown dye hiding the natural tone of her hair. Like rust, he remembers, highlighted by vibrant copper when the sun shone upon her.  

“She’s not to be touched,” Jon warns and Tormund lets out a bark of laughter loud enough for Sansa to take notice, for her to still in her play with Ghost to silently observe their exchange.

“Untwist your smalls, it’s the big one that has caused me to stir. Think about mounting that."

Jon holds back a laugh, because from what he has seen of the Lady Tarth, Tormund is more likely to get his manhood lobed off than to bed her. He pats the man on the back nonetheless. “I wish you luck,” he chuckles. “Are your men ready to leave?”

“Waiting on you, _m’lord_.”

This was it, then. No more putting it off. Why was it so hard for him to approach her? What was he afraid of? Looking in her eyes and seeing all the torment there, knowing that he hadn’t given much thought to how she'd faired over the years other than to support her claim on Winterfell. He had been ready to break down the walls of Winterfell for who he thought to be Arya, yet he hadn’t batted an eye when he’d learnt of Sansa’s forced marriage to the imp. Guilt, then. What must she think of him? It was his duty to protect her, and he hadn’t. But he could now. He would now.

When he approaches her, she falls into that ridiculously low curtsy again. “Lord Commander.”

“Jon,” he corrects. He will play her game for now, he decides. If it’s what she wants then that is what he will give her. It did not mean that he would not try to coax her out from where she is hiding.

“Excuse me?”

“Jon Snow. No titles, not any longer. The new Lord Commander has granted me consent in stepping down from my watch.”

A flash of worry crosses her face before she squares her shoulders. “Oh. And where will you go?” she asks as if it is no bother to her.

“Where will we go,” Jon amends and she seems so shocked, her mouth opening and closing a few times before words finally find her. “You intend to take me with you?”

“Yes, to the free folk for now. Unless you do not want to come?” he asks with a raised a brow.

“There is nowhere else for me to go, m’lord.”

“As I thought. Well, if we’re going to be travelling together then it would befit me to know a lady’s name.”

She bites her lip, hesitation perhaps, before she makes her choice. “Alayne Stone.”

“Alayne Stone.” He gives her a meaningful look. I remember, he wants to say. “A pretty name for a pretty lady.”       

 

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa is the most appropriately dressed for the climate than she is ever going to be again in this fic, yet Jon still wants to throw more clothes on her while also leaving the poor girl confused after he gives a most uncharacteristic, though short, monologue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say, holy cricks, that is a lot of love after just one chapter. Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments. You guys are the best! :)

It took them less than two days at a steady pace to arrive at the Gift. Sansa had remained distant, always flanked by Ghost, the Lady Tarth, and the boy that squired for her. It seemed that his wolf had abandoned all for the lost woman that was once his sister, and was only confirmed when Val greeted their party upon arrival and Ghost had remained at Sansa’s side, even with the honeyed-haired princess trying to entice him to her.

Val’s mouth twists into an amused smile, her eyes dragging up and down the length of Sansa’s form. She’s splattered with mud, the skirts of her gown caked with it to what must be mid-thigh. It’s smeared on her face and clings to her hair. She’s a mess, nothing at all like the pristine girl that had left their home to become a queen in the south. Yet her face is flushed and her eyes are bright as she takes in the free folk that mill about her with the disposition of an inquisitive child.

“Why, Lord Snow, you are more free folk than I had thought. Stolen a southron lady for your bride, have you?” she jests.

Jon is at a loss on how to answer. She is my sister? She is no one; a bastard, Alayne Stone. Val saves him the trouble of having to respond, never one to wait for someone to speak when she has more to say.

“My, but this one is filthy. Come,” she insists, inclining her head to indicate Sansa.

The two women leave, Sansa glancing back at him for no more than a few beats of his heart, but her eyes seem to penetrate into his soul. Now that he has her, Jon is not so sure that he is comfortable with her leaving his sight, and he finds himself fighting back the urge to follow because if there is one thing that he won’t be, it’s her keeper.

Yet Jon finds himself setting their meagre belongings in the same hut to share. There were many to choose from, the Gift and its inhabitants being abandoned long before, each one as dilapidated as the next. He should have had the sense to have her share quarters with the Lady Tarth, but it is something he feels better about when Val and Sansa emerge close to nightfall and near to every man in the vicinity has their eyes firmly fixed on the woman that had arrived covered in muck.

She looks every inch the wildling princess as Val. Woollen breaches and boots do nothing to conceal the length and shape of her legs; vests of fur tied tightly to her abdomen reveal the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips; her hair braided and coiled at the back of her head, showing the elegant slope of a long and slender neck. She is in her prime for bearing children and every man there knows it, and all Jon wants to do is cover her with his cloak, drag her to their hut and keep her hidden from their approving gazes.  

Sansa stands tall, her shoulders back and her head held high. Bastard she may pretend to be, but that is the stance of a highborn lady and nothing less. Determination; it comes to him in abundance and a crack, it’s all he needs. A crack, and he can slip inside so as to lead her out.

Once night falls, and the free folk are gathered round fires and well into their cups, Jon finds his solitude interrupted by the Red Woman, the rustling of her silk skirts piercing through his thoughts as an arrow would through flesh. Her presence is unwanted, suspicious of her as he is. She leans into him, head dipping so a sheet of red hair brushes his arm.

“Your eyes follow her.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her. I sometimes think that she may not be real, that if I lose sight of her, it will be forever,” he admits, as pitiable as he feels.

“She does not claim a relation to you,” the Red Woman observes.

“No, she does not.”

“Mayhap she does not remember. She could be lame in the head.”

“There is nothing wrong with her,” Jon snaps, more forcefully than he intends. “She just needs time.” And that’s what he will give, all the time she needs. If he has to learn her all over again, that is what he will do.

“Either way, she is wolf,” she muses, though that was never in dispute. Jon knew her the moment he looked into her eyes. Tully eyes, as her mother before her, an exact replica. How many nights had he wallowed as a child, wishing that those eyes of Catelyn Stark would look upon him in kindness instead of indifference? How confused had he been when those eyes, in the face of her daughter, stopped looking upon him with kindness and only indifference when she was old enough to know him as a bastard?

As quick as he had fallen into it, Jon pulls himself out of thoughts from long ago, the Red Woman’s interest in his considerations displayed by a raise of her brows. “I can see it in the flames, Jon Snow. A snarling head of a wolf.” She frowns, then almost absently, she continues. “The flames, they behave oddly. Like they want to reach for her and lick her flesh, like they want to devour her.”

It’s not the constant cold, but something in the Red Woman’s words that makes Jon shiver.

 

* * *

 

The Lady Tarth is a constant shadow at her back, and it is surprising to Sansa how quickly she has become accustomed to it. With the warrior woman though, seems to bring the much larger man of the wildlings that had been at the wall; the one that looked like he could crush another man’s head with his hands. Crushing heads seems to be the last thing on his mind when he looks upon her self-appointed guard however, and Sansa will admit to finding entertainment in how put out, bemused and flushed Lady Tarth is over the predicament.

Ghost has become her true companion, never leaving her side, snapping at the ankles of a man that had dared to come too close after he had spent an unbearable amount of time staring at her from afar. She had felt a sense of smug satisfaction at the time, but now she is finding herself frustrated by Ghost’s attentions. As Sansa, she was as apathetic to the wolf as she was its owner. By the time they had come into possession of their pups, it had been so long since she had ever really interacted with Jon that she was not sure if she had ever even spared the moment it would have taken to run her hand along his thick coat. Why would she, when she had the gentle and lovely Lady?

As Alayne, she is a stranger to the wolf, but he took to her and still is taken with her. Maybe it is a quality of Alayne’s, she ponders. Maybe she has a way with animals, and there is something about her that they are endeared to. Sansa smiles because, yes; she likes the sound of that, and sinks her hand into the fur at his neck, runs her fingers up and scratches behind an ear as she catches Jon’s stare across the fire pit.

An ache begins to form in her chest. It’s much harder to be Alayne when he looks at her like that: a mixture of worry, hurt and relief. She wants to reach out and touch him, but she is unsure if she has the right to. Is she deserving of his comfort and care after all that she has done, and not just to him—horrid girl that she was—but to their family? She almost feels as if it shouldn’t be her. That it should be Arya here instead.

Arya wouldn’t feel uncomfortable and somehow exposed in breeches and furs. She wouldn’t be slightly shocked by the crass and abrasive nature of the free folk. No, Arya would embrace it, just as she would embrace Jon and be worthy of it in return. She wouldn’t be internally questioning why they had left the wall and why they were here, of all places. Arya would trust Jon. So to assuage some of her guilt and his pain she tries to smile at him, uncertain how to because she doesn’t know if in this moment she is Sansa or Alayne, and it feels like it sits peculiarly on her lips.

Jon is up in an instant, taking her smile as invitation when it wasn’t meant to be one. She almost starts to panic as he makes his way closer, her fingers curling into Ghost’s fur and clenching to a point where it must bother the poor thing, yet he softly growls at Jon in warning when he sits down beside her.

He looks baffled and amused all at once, brow furrowed and an upwards lift to one side of his mouth as Ghost’s growl putters off and ends in a snore. “I think he likes you,” he says, eyes gentle and warm and looking almost as dark as the night. “Maybe more so than he likes me.”

Not possible, she thinks. But then she slips back into place and remembers, and with an assured mien tells him, “I have a way with animals.”

“Is that so? And here I thought he was intuitive, maybe trying to fill the space for something you have lost. As it is, you’ve simply bewitched him.” It’s supposed to be a tease, she knows this. But he is tip-toeing the line of her game with his words and she finds herself losing some of her confidence, and in place of answering she turns her attention to the drunken and dancing wildlings.

There seems to be no rhyme or sense to their movements, but there is laughter and smiling, enjoyment, no different from what she has encountered at any of the feasts she has attended. Jon Snow, as she can see from the corner of her eye, no longer smiles at her, and watches her with an intensity that makes her shift where she sits.

“You would wish to dance?” he asks and she speculates at whether he is offering or simply inquiring. Whichever one she shakes her head, tilts it upwards and informs him that no, she does not take enjoyment in dancing.

He pulls a stick from beneath his boot, fiddles with it between his hands and picks at the bark before he tells her, “you remind me of someone, Alayne Stone.”

Sansa sucks in a breath, the beating of her heart pounding against her chest. She wants to cover her ears because she doesn’t want to hear it and she looks at him, trying to convey without words that she wants him to stop, but he doesn’t.

“She loved to dance. Her half-brother, on the other hand, disliked it immensely. Always that gloomy, sulking dark cloud in the corner. But she was the sun, radiant with life thrumming through her as she gracefully twirled and twisted from one step to the next. The skirts of her gowns swishing with each movement, and hair like fire curling around her. Everyone that watched her smiled, her half-brother included, even the little sister that clashed with her daily. She claimed she preferred the dances of the southron lords and ladies, but little did she know that she grinned the most and laughed the loudest when she danced for the north.”

Salt stings at her eyes, and her vision waters, but petulance rises in her chest because he isn’t being fair. “She sounds like a silly little girl,” Sansa remarks with a sniff. He laughs, loud and unrestricted and she can’t help but jump and look at him with something close to awe. Sansa was very much certain that she had never made Jon laugh before, and because of it, she felt a small smile come to bend at her lips.

“Aye, she had her moments.”

“Oh.” And her smile fades only for Jon to lightly bump her shoulder with his own. “But, I think we have all been little and silly at one point,” he says as if to reassure her.

Then his mood seems to darken, and he looks like that sullen boy she remembers from her childhood. “She is missed,” he tells her in a murmur. “She should know that.”

He leaves her alone then, and she is left lost in her own mind of thoughts that seem to overlap one another again and again. There is too much, too much Sansa and too much Alayne happening all at the same time and she feels like she is suffocating beneath it. She should have been Arya, for his sake, and she pulls in a harsh breath of cold air that makes her gasp and she begins to tremble with the weight of it all crushing her. Strong hands are wrapping around her arms and there is something heavy, but warm and comforting resting in her lap that lets off a whine.

“My Lady, are you feeling well?”

“I can’t—” heavy breaths, in and out, telling herself to calm “—I’d like to go to bed,” she finishes on an exhale.

The Lady Tarth looks at her, clear signs of worry in those pretty eyes of hers, and gathers her up, leading her away from where the majority of the wildlings are gathered and out to where the flames of fires that illuminate their path become scarcer. Ghost trots at her side and Jon watches her go, that same intense expression from before on his face.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in the first chapter, this is a messed up mix of show and books, plus my own fumbling. So there are characters that aren't in the show making an appearance but they also aren't quite where they are in the books. I hope this isn't too annoying? I'm kind of hoping people just go with it. Oh, and yes, Tormund and Brienne are pretty much my comic relief. Seeing the way he looked at her this season totally gave me my kicks and I want more! 
> 
> I did tell one reader that there would be two scenes this chapter from Sansa's POV, but the two here became a bit longer than I had originally written so I moved the third scene to start off Chapter Three. I did say this wouldn't be overly long, but things seem to be moving rather slowly and I'm going to warn everyone now for a possible slow burn.
> 
> Anyway, if anything comes off as too ridiculous then speak up. Sometimes I don't see things until people point them out to me and then I'm all, "yeah, that makes no sense." Thanks for reading!


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this might seem like it's moving slowly? But after this chapter we will see much improvement in Sansa and then we can get this show on the road! ;)

The nights in the Gift are cold, Sansa comes to find. Even with all the ruin that has befallen Winterfell it was not cold, not like this. There are too many fractures in the huts and cottages for the wind to sneak through, the smokestacks poorly constructed, letting more heat out than is kept in. She wakes up shivering that first night to find Ghost watching over her. He tilts his head to the side, considering, before stooping in and nuzzling against her face. She misses Lady profusely in that moment and wiggles as far over to the wall as she can. She pats the thin straw mattress in the space she has made, and the great wolf doesn’t hesitate in clambering up onto the cot and settling down beside her.

It’s a tremendously tight fit and she curls into herself, pushes up against his back, eager to steal all the warmth that she can. Her shivering slowly subsides and with the rise and fall of the great wolfs steady breathing, Sansa finds herself lulled back to sleep.

The days pass, each one blending into the next, and there is something inside her that is not right. Something that gets tugged every now and then that she has to consciously ignore. _This is not where you’re supposed to be_ , it tells her. _This is not who_ —and she clenches her eyes shut, wants to slap her palms against her head because if she could just stop _thinking_ , then it won’t matter. So she concentrates, on everyone and everything around her.

She listens to them, learns about who they are, just as she was taught. The Red Woman, Ser Davos, and the Lady Tarth: they all tell her stories and learn nothing about her in return, just as she has been taught. She watches Podrick, a reminder of a time she does not want, try to hone his skill with a sword against wildlings that can knock him on his back faster than he can turn to defend himself.

The wildling children, that are as free as they believe, try to cajole her into their play and she resists until she sees the monstrosities that they build with their mounds of gathered snow. They hide from her and she runs, flicking up cold powder with her boots as she hunts out every one of their hiding places. In those moments she feels light, almost giddy, with rosy cheeks and a cold nose that runs so often she has a constant sniff.  

Jon does not approach her, always careful to retire for the night after her and rise before she has woken, but he watches. He’s always watching her unless he’s gone deer stalking and then it is Ghost at her side with the same propensity to observe her as Jon. _She is missed_ , he told her, and now he does nothing but stare from a distance. Her frustration towards him grows and she wants to explode at him, yell and beat all her vexations out upon his chest.

Why are they here with these people? They whisper about him as if he is some sort of higher being. And then she realises it’s because he wants to be here. Here with these people instead of helping her come up with a way to take back— _Stop!_ She has to keep telling herself to stop, because why would Winterfell matter to her, Alayne Stone? It wouldn’t. _It wouldn’t. It doesn’t._ Her already fissured mind is failing and she knows that she’ll have to face it all soon.

 

* * *

 

Jon begins to dream of a warm soft body curled up against him at night. He wants to possess it, to wrap himself around it and never let go, but he wakes up cold and alone. It leaves a pang of want and loneliness to settle within the pit of his stomach and during the day he finds his eyes every so often drifting to Val. Lovely Val. He’d wanted her once, pictured children and a home, but that was before his brothers of the watch had betrayed him, before they’d—he has to shake his head because he remembers the pain, can feel icy steel severing flesh from flesh, tendon from tendon and muscle from muscle. Cold. _Stick them with the pointy end_. Then _nothing._

He doesn’t want to remember, then he hears Sansa’s laboured breath and muffled laughter and his mind is once again filled by her. Lost Sansa. He wants to help her but is afraid of pushing her too far after what had happened their first night in the Gift. Now he watches and bides his time for the right opportunity. He isn’t the only one that watches her. The Lady Tarth is an unwavering wall of steel at her back and Sansa has caught Val’s attention, but Jon is unsure of what to make of that. The wildling princess seems to regard her as if she is an animal thought tamed and yet could just as likely re-embrace the wild, and he can tell that it is something that Val likes.  

Watching her play with the children of the free folk causes a blithely smile and he fancies joining her, pelting her with balls of snow then crumbling his last against her thick head of hair that is showing more shades of rust and copper as time goes by. But that has never been them and for a moment his heart burns for little Arya.

The sniffing at night is something that Jon can do without, though. Something that the Sansa of his youth would have never been caught dead doing yet in their hut all he can hear before he finally falls asleep is _sniff, sniff, sniff._

For the sake of his mind and her health he pulls his old mantle from where it has been packed away, rubs the soft wolf pelt between rough fingers and feels like it has been a lifetime since he last wore this. Too small for him now, shoulders much too broad for it to shelter him effectively but ideal for the slighter width of Sansa.

Jon has made a habit of rising before her, to give her the privacy she needs to wash and dress, same as he gives her at night, but on this morning he returns to their hut before she has emerged and knocks lightly on the door. She bids him entry and he finds her tying off the end of her braid while sitting at the edge of her cot. Ghost, as faithful to Sansa as he is to Jon, spread out on the floor at her feet with his heavy tail thumping against the grime covered floorboards while she rubs beneath his jaw with the tip of a foot encased by thick woollen hose.

He moves to his packs that are piled at the foot of his cot, clears his throat, unsure, because how long has it been since they last spoke? Too long for his liking, Jon thinks. With a tentative look he darts a glance over his shoulder while pulling his mantle from the top of a pack.

“I have something for you,” he says as he rises and turns to face her.

Sansa quirks up an eyebrow, but other than that her face is a perfect expanse void of expression. “Oh?”

It’s obvious what he is giving her, folded over his arm in plain view, but her eyes never even glimpse at it and stay steady on his face. Jon swallows, his nerves heightening, and it feels rough going down as he comes to stand before her, snow-capped boots brushing against Ghost’s spine. He offers her his hand, stuck out in front of her face so she can’t pretend as if it’s not there. As it is, it feels like he has taken an abundant amount of breaths before she places her hand in his and it’s trembling, cold fingers sliding against his palm before he locks onto it and pulls her up to stand.

Now that she is standing he feels inappropriately close for their current situation, even with Ghost’s great hulking form laying between their feet. Still, Jon makes no move to step back and instead pulls the mantle from his arm and brings it around her back to lay it upon her shoulders, leaving it for her to secure herself.

“It’s getting colder,” he states, feeling inadequate for having to point out the obvious just to fill the silence. “And this will keep you warmer than the cloak you arrived in at the wall.”

He slides his hands down from her shoulders, curls his fingers over her arms just below and lets his eyes travel over her from head to foot then back up again. Seeing her in his mantle does something odd to him, and an unexpected fluttering of warmth fills his chest and travels up to the base of his neck. Jon swallows and again his saliva feels too thick and his throat bobs with the effort.

“It looks good on you,” he states, or is it compliments? He’s not so sure, but her eyelids are blinking rapidly as she simply looks at him.

He tucks two or three strands of missed hair behind her ear before leaving her be. Sansa doesn’t thank him, not verbally. Her thanks do come not long after he overhears a conversation between herself and Val. The two women sit on a fallen trunk near the outskirts of the forest, and Jon stills on his way back from a fruitless hunt when their voices carry to him through the tress.

“If you want it then you take it,” Val says and Jon finds himself shallowing his breaths as he tries to lighten his steps, cringing when snow crunches beneath his boots.

“It doesn’t work like that here.”

“People are people. It works like that everywhere. Only distinction is free folk don’t secrete their intent as southron people are want to do. If you succeed in your taking is a further matter.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sansa finally asks following a period of silence.

“Because you want. I can see it in your eyes. So I tell you, if you want it then you take it.”

“I only inquired after needle and thread,” Sansa says and Val laughs. “You can take that too, if you want it.”

Jon comes away wondering at what Val understands that he doesn’t. What can she see expressed in Sansa’s eyes that he has so clearly missed? He wants to look into them, loose himself in vibrant blue until he can figure all of her out because she is almost foreign to him and he craves what she is: family and home. He wants her to want that too.

Days elapse where Sansa keeps to herself inside their hut until he retires late one night and finds a stack of clothing folded neatly on his cot. Jon examines each piece; breeches and tunics that once held rips and holes fixed with small and intricate stitching—perfect. He sucks in his top lip and holds it between his teeth and tries not to smile too broadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone that reads, hits the kudos button or drops a comment. :)


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